.png)
There is no sound way to fully satiate grief. It is an unending and demanding abscess, gaping, dark and unearthly in its formless shadow — a cavern where dying words echo in quiet whispers, the last frontier of the known and tangible. It inundates and ebbs, a perpetual vacuum immune to the mitigation of passing time. And yet, our acceptance of it is far from universal but rather unfair, courting expectations firmly entrenched in a hypocritical binary. Toxic masculinity disavows emotions and vulnerability, and thus grief — denying strength in favor of farce and pretense that is poisonously pervasive.
HUSBANDS intrepidly navigates this tough terrain in trademark Cassavetes fashion, detailing two desultory nights of debauchery amongst three middle-aged men forced to reckon with the unexpected loss of their longtime friend. Adherence to masculinity has rendered them unable to effectively communicate their heartache to their family, and thus they buttress themselves in destructive deception, feigning strength and nonchalance to its breaking point.
What emerges is a gritty and unapologetic portrait of desperation shaken, stirred, and poured in excruciating bouts of self-revelation and doubt. Falk, Cassavetes, and Gazzara struggle to find meaning, purpose, and identity, drinking themselves into a reflective stupor where only then they are numb enough to withstand the accompanying fear and doubt. They capitulate to whim, jetting to London for indulgent liaisons in hopes of tempering that gnawing void, drifting apart and together in an erratic rhythm that culminates in unresolved ambiguity.
Cassavetes’ signature realism is at its rawest here, electrifyingly acerbic, authentic and ontologically robust in origin. He draws upon largely improvised material and channels real chemistry, blurring the boundaries between the real and unreal. Seldom can I tolerate films that abandon traditional narrative structure, but Cassavetes’ meandering oeuvre is full of revelation and ahead of its time.
Comments